Getting There
by sarapals with past50
Summary: All GSR, fluff, little angst-as Sara works in Vegas and Grissom studies insects, but an event happens in the first chapter that delivers a blow to happiness. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_**A short story set in the future of the Grissoms. Enjoy!**_

_**We do not own CSI, just playing with some of the characters. **_

_**GETTING THERE**_

_Chapter 1_

_El Capulin, World Heritage Site, Sierra Madre Mountains, Central Mexico_

As early morning sunlight filtered through trees, slumbering butterflies began to wake. Amber wings unfolded and lifted delicate bodies into the warm Mexican air. As smoke rises, butterfly after butterfly left the tall trees until the sky was filled with millions of them. Their wings opened to deep orange and bold black appearing as stained glass windows that filled the blue sky. The sound of a million insect wings in motion sounded like a distant waterfall.

Gil Grissom was speechless. The journey here was nothing short of magnificent even though his butt was sore from riding a horse the day before up and down a narrow trail to get to this valley. His trip was nothing compared to the thousands of miles these butterflies took to get to this area. He held his camera up and kept pressing the quiet shutter for several minutes before swapping camera for cell phone. He sent three photos to the first contact number listed on his phone. He wished Sara was with him—plans were for them to travel together—but Catherine had pleaded for her to work another week, and, of course, Sara had agreed.

He turned slowly; butterflies were everywhere from trunk bottom to highest branches, trees were coated with them. Purple petals of lupins turned orange as butterflies smothered them for nectar. Around pools of water, huge clusters of Monarchs made a fluttering carpet as they drank. Fed and watered, the butterflies danced in the sky, riding on thermals in the valley and turning the area into a butterfly kingdom. Grissom was oblivious to the movements of others as they set up a temporary work station, talking quietly. Grissom's reaction was expected—an opened mouth stunned into silence moment.

For centuries, locals knew the butterflies arrived in early winter but it was only in the seventies that scientists discovered this remote mountainside was the ultimate destination of North American monarchs. Four quick generations later, butterflies find their way back to a place they have never been.

The others in the small group were funded researchers, returning to work they had been doing for years. Grissom was here as a volunteer for three weeks and, while he thought no place on earth could surpass Costa Rica, this World Heritage Site in the Sierra Mountains ranked a close second.

His grin reflected his satisfaction. He pushed his hat up with a thumb and turned to one of the researchers. "I can't wait for Sara to see this!"

_A quiet street, Las Vegas, Nevada, USA _

Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, both dressed in blue jumpsuits, had gone about the work in their usual methodical manner—they had worked together for so long there was no need to divide or assign tasks. They did what needed doing. The house fire had been typical until firemen found a body and the burned remains were still tied to a chair. What had been someone's home was now a crime scene; when the two women arrived, the heat could be felt through their boots. Hours later, the floor had cooled, the body had been removed, and they continued to sift through charred furniture and household belongings. Sara found blood on a metal ski pole thrown into a closet.

"We might have a murder weapon," she sighed; the night had stretched into morning. They had already carried a dozen envelopes and containers of evidence to the vehicle and she carefully wrapped the ski pole and placed it beside the growing stack. "I'll take these out—dawn brings out the looky-loos. Looks like half the neighborhood stayed home to watch."

Catherine stood and stretched. "This can go on forever. Let me finish a few things and we'll head back to the lab." She tossed several envelopes to add to the heap.

Sara packed evidence bags under her arm and headed out the door. Another beautiful day in Vegas, she thought. Hank would be thrilled to have a long walk on a sunny day; she would call her husband around noon and check in with him. She grinned at her thoughts and said, "Be back in a sec." She heard Catherine's mumbled response as she stepped into sunlight and quickly walked to her car, opened the rear of her vehicle and added to the collection of evidence. Sighing, she touched her phone and thought about taking two minutes to call her husband.

She fingered her phone—no longer the standard issue department phone—this satellite phone would reach Gil Grissom in the northern reaches of Alaska or in the Sierra Mountains of Mexico. Checking the time and glancing at the growing crowd of watchers, she headed back to the house. Grissom would be having serious fun in the valley of Monarch butterflies, so she replaced her phone; she would wait to call him.

Halfway to the burned out house, Sara heard a shuffle occurring—someone wanted a front-row view to what was happening, she guessed. She did not see the old man duck under the crime scene tape, moving faster than the two uniforms who headed in his direction. She did not see the gun rise and swing up in her direction. She became aware of a deafening report that launched her into a spinning dive to the ground before she could raise her arms and hands to prevent a head-long crash into an ill-kept lawn, made muddy by the firemen's earlier work. She knew she coughed slightly as she turned her face away from mud, but something was wrong, something was suddenly very wrong with her right shoulder. And then the pain came, the immense, over-whelming, shuddering roar of pain that built and beat at her body. She finally found her voice and cried loudly as thunder filled her ears from additional gunshots and she slid into a deep well of black velvet.

**A/N:**_ Do the right thing and hit "review" so we know who is reading! This one will be a short story-maybe 10 chapters and updates will come every 2-3 days. Thanks so much!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Getting There**

Chapter 2

_Mexico_

Grissom took directions well; he measured trees using a laser measurer, he wrote numbers as researchers called them out, he weighed butterflies on a microgram scale, and occasionally someone found a small dot marked on a wing which indicated where the butterfly had been caught and tagged on its way to Mexico. He was so engrossed in what was happening he did not realize his phone was making a low beep until a man across the table joked and asked if he had a dinner date with someone.

Chuckling, he said, "My wife—she's the only one with this number!" He checked the phone and grinned as he answered, "Hello, dear, from high in the Sierra Madre—where millions of Monarchs are waiting for you!" Everyone around him smiled at his greeting and when he said "Catherine", they noticed an immediate change in his voice.

Catherine's voice sent a shock wave into his brain; she would not be using Sara's phone without reason. He immediately moved away from the group, but everyone had stopped at the change in his voice as he said the woman's name. Only later would several of the men say they heard panic and fear in one word. They watched as excitement left Grissom's face to be replaced by anxiety—Grissom's hand ranked across his face, his shoulders slumped, anguish suddenly seem to age his face. As the mostly one-sided, unheard conversation continued, one of the researchers motioned for others to continue their work. Instead, realizing something had happened to affect their newest volunteer in a very drastic way, each person pulled out their phone and commenced a whispered conversation.

No one knew if the phone call had ended or if Grissom had simply heard all he could as he turned and said, "She's—my wife has been shot—in a bad way…I need to get home." The phone was still in his hand as he held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness and distress.

Over the years, the group had experienced a dozen emergencies—none like this—but they knew how to respond; satellite phones and internet access even in remote areas meant travel plans could be made quickly. Within minutes, Grissom was on the trail with a local man and two researchers. The others assured him travel plans would be complete by the time he arrived at the nearest village. The local man kept repeating there was a very fast way to reach Mexico City from the village. Grissom could not think past Catherine's message; his mind would not function fast enough to translate the man's Spanish. He had to get home and, right now, he would not hesitate to climb aboard a drug-loaded plane if it meant he would reach Sara's side.

_Las Vegas _

Anyone who worked law enforcement knew the sound of a gunshot and Catherine had reacted to the sound—actually ducking her head—and by the time she heard a second shot, she was moving toward the front door and reaching for her radio. The second shot sent a bullet into the house breaking charred pieces of wood into splinters. Adrenalin pumped through her veins and she did not flinch at the 'thunk' sound of the second bullet hitting something—metal she thought. Other shots rang out and she recognized the gunfire as that from police revolvers.

Her first view outside was one of pandemonium—the crowd was running in three directions. Two uniformed men were on their knees, aiming at a body sprawled on the sidewalk. They began to move, scrambling to feet, one running toward the house. Then she saw Sara.

Sara—lying in a tumbling fall, face down, unmoving, and, with a horrified cry, Catherine saw blood seeping into the blue fabric. Later, she realized she screamed at everyone—the policemen for not seeing the old man with a gun, for waiting seconds to call for an ambulance; she screamed at the ambulance crew when they arrived, but never did she rise from the mud and release Sara until one of the paramedics pulled her hands away and Ecklie and Brass grabbed an arm to help her up. By then, the others, Nick, Greg, Langston, and half the day shift had arrived on the scene and everyone was asking questions.

Greg was the one who thought to retrieve Sara's phone, who managed to get Catherine into his vehicle to follow the ambulance. "They need room to work on her, Catherine. We'll be right behind them!"

In the car, as panic subsided and reality returned, Catherine's hand shook as Greg handed her a towel. "Grissom—what do I tell Grissom? She looks bad—did you see all the blood?" Dread rose in her voice. "Do I wait—should I call him now? Do you know where he is? Mexico someplace, right?" Her eyes filled with tears. "I begged her to stay, Greg. She was going with him and I begged her to stay another week." She turned her face to the window. "She's bad—I know this is bad."

Catherine was talking about his best friend. Taking her hand, Greg said, "It's on the right side—we'll know something once we get to the hospital. Call him then—when you know something—that's what I'd want to hear." Minutes later they pulled beside the ambulance as Sara was rolled inside.

In ten minutes the others swept into the ER, asking questions for which Catherine and Greg had no answers. Nick asked if Grissom had been called and both shook their heads.

"I want to say more than 'Sara's been shot, get home'—what is taking so long?" Catherine asked as she paced. "This was a safe scene! Who was that guy? And why won't someone tell us something?"

All of them paced for what seemed like hours when it was actually less than thirty minutes when a tall man wearing a white coat appeared and the group circled him. Catherine knew she recognized the man but the events of the past hour slowed her recognition.

"I'm Dr. Lurie," he said.

If a thread of adrenalin had not continued to run through her blood vessels, Catherine might have fainted as a flood of memories came back to her of Grissom spending hours on a case years ago. Lurie had been the prime suspect and had walked out a free man. One of the victims had been a Sara look-alike.

Nick, thinking faster than anyone else, asked several questions.

Lurie spoke: "She has a massive shoulder wound—close range, a bullet designed to cause maximum damage to soft tissue and bone. You'll find it, I'm sure. But right now we are getting her to surgery, see what damage is done. Her heart appears sound—undamaged, as is the spinal cord. That's the good news, short term."

"How long before more news?" Greg asked this question.

The physician shook his head. "The repair and clean up will take hours. If she has family, get them here just in case something goes wrong. We'll do our best to give her some range of motion, repair bones and nerves—that's my initial concern with an injury like this." He turned to leave as quickly as he had arrived.

Others murmured thanks while Catherine attempted to comprehend everything that had happened. Brass had placed a hand on her back and felt breath escape as her knees buckled.

"Hey! Hey! Sit, sweetheart!"

Greg must have been watching because he had a chair behind her before she could slip to the floor. "I'm okay," she insisted as the other gathered around her. "Just everything sort of closed in—and that doctor! Do you remember him?" Her eyes were wide now as she looked from face to face.

_A/N: Thanks for reviewing-let us hear from you! And next chapter arrives soon!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: A special thanks to David Rambo who gave us the excellent episode of Butterflied, and the nastiest, most-perfect suspect to get away in CSI history! And now we've got Dr. Lurie in our story!_

**Getting There**

Chapter 3

_Las Vegas _

Sara's brain fired reflexes so quickly everything seemed to move in slow motion. Pain brought her out of blackness—a bomb had gone off inside her shirt or a jack hammer had pounded through her back, and the constant screaming seemed to reverberate inside her skull. She was able to isolate one sound as Catherine shouting her name—long, drawn-out, not in the usual way Catherine clipped 'Sara". Stinging, harsh waves echoed and surged around her body as breathing became painful and short. The blackness closed around her senses again, but not before she felt warm blood pouring down her back…

The next time she became conscious, she knew she was in a hospital. Her eyes were aware of bright lights, a white ceiling, too much glare for her eyes; one's mind could play weird tricks while stressed. Lying in what she knew was a trauma treatment room, Sara experienced an abrupt change in aspect—a camera-on-the-ceiling view that had occurred to her before when she had been in hospitals. It was a phenomenon she had experienced when she was five or six, deciding what was happening to her body was less painful when one's mind detached from its body. She could see everyone bent over the gurney, working with no wasted motions, something placed in a hand, something else removed. She could see splashes of bright red, the dark dampness on the blue jumpsuit she had been wearing—tossed to one side now, the shiny flash of instruments as hands moved quickly, even the color of shirts worn under scrubs by those working on her. She could hear quick chatter—all of it nonsense to her ears.

Finally, she zoomed in and examined herself on the narrow bed, her eyes closed, hair matted with mud as someone tugged a cap over it and someone else wiped her face and neck. Her shoulder and chest was a bloody mess. She knew she had been shot and, by the appearance of her chest, the bullet had exited between her breasts. She wanted to curse—some nut with a gun had ripped a gapping hole in a place Grissom loved to kiss. At that thought, she wanted to laugh, but her camera view blinked and she was no longer able to see or hear as darkness swallowed her again.

_Mexico_

Twice Grissom's phone rang before they arrived at the village—spine and heart appeared undamaged; Sara had gone into surgery. The bullet was high velocity, close range. Dozens of people were waiting to give blood. Catherine promised to call again.

A rusty yellow truck as old as Grissom was waiting as they left the fir trees of the mountainside. The rutted path, mentioned as a shortcut to the village, was no more road than a rabbit's trail through the forest, but the driver seemed to understand an emergency had occurred elsewhere and harm was not to come because of his driving. The truck slowed as he drove through the village and ten minutes later they stopped beside an open shelter covering two small airplanes—small in size but not in power. Grissom knew little about airplanes but knew these were crop dusters. A third plane, painted white with yellow and black letters "Research" painted on its flat surfaces, waited for him.

One of the researchers ran into an enclosed part of the shelter, returning in minutes with papers. "You have your passport? You're booked on a charter flight to Vegas—four hours or less—it leaves when you arrive and with this guy, you'll make it in less than an hour." He explained a few more details.

"Thanks, gracias, muchas gracias—to everyone." Grissom shook hands and stepped into the small plane's front seat.

"Buckle up—we'll expect you back soon—with your wife! God speed!" A researcher called as the engine choked twice before it started with a loud sound. As quickly as they had arrived at the hard packed air strip, the plane was airborne, flying low across the valley.

The pilot said something in Spanish; Grissom nodded even though he had not understood a word said. A hand on his shoulder caused him to jump in surprise as he turned to see a beautiful young woman in the back seat.

"He asked if you were going to be sick," she said with a laugh, passing a plastic bag to him.

The expression on his face showed his surprise and she laughed again. Her hand came across his shoulder. "I'm Gloria Garcia—registered nurse, graduate of the University of Texas School of Nursing, community nurse for the valley. I'm flying in to get medical supplies," she explained.

He reached around and shook her hand. "Gil Grissom."

The young woman was astonishingly beautiful, he thought, and before he could say anything else, she said: "The plane is owned by the bio-research group but we get to use it for medical purposes." She laughed easily. "My parents grew up in this valley; I returned 'home' even though I grew up in Austin. So, you are going to Vegas? Never been there—not yet—but we'll get you on the plane." She made driving motions with her hands. "It's a special jet," she grinned showing perfect white teeth in her smile. "Maybe you'll send me a postcard about the trip!"

The girl talked over the engine noise, never asking why he was leaving—perhaps she already knew and was too polite to ask questions. But neither her beauty nor her talk distracted from the thrill ride of leaving the valley in the small Cessna. The small plane lifted from the grass strip, making a hair-pin turn at tree top level before heading south. They gained altitude to fly between mountains then dropped like a stone on the other side, repeating this several times, before the pilot pointed ahead to the sprawl of Mexico City. The young nurse pointed to landmarks, ancient sites and new skyscrapers as they made a final approach and neither she nor the pilot flinched as two jumbo jets thundered past the small plane.

Once on the ground, the pilot taxied away from the terminal and stopped near a small jet. "That's your flight," the young woman pointed to a Lear jet. Neither registered surprise at military personnel serving as ground crew. More papers were exchanged between pilot and crew, and, before Grissom had a chance to do more than wave, a young man was motioning him up the stairs and closing the hatch as soon as he stepped into the jet.

Inside were three other passengers, none glanced at him, no greetings, no attempts to make conversation, or announced destinations. He took the first empty seat and managed a quick message to Catherine saying he would call her when he arrived in Vegas. He padded his vest to check his passport before realizing no one was going to check his passport before departure. He clicked his seatbelt and managed a quick furtive glance at his fellow travelers. The lone female was dressed as a tourist, as he was, wearing a similar vest and sandals. One man was dressed in a military uniform—U.S. Army, Grissom thought. The other man was definitely law enforcement, probably DEA. He settled into his seat as the jet began to roll. This was definitely the most unusual flight he had ever taken, he thought. Obviously, the Monarch researchers had friends in unlikely places—or they were part of a much larger research group.

Grissom did not think he would sleep, but the muted drone of engines, cool air gently blowing around him, and the rare occasion of having nothing to work on or read lulled him to sleep. A change in sound wakened him. Someone was moving around the plane; the woman laughed quietly. A few seconds later, he was asked for his passport.

"We'll be landing in Vegas first—in about twenty minutes—so I'll stamp your passport now. You'll have a car waiting. Sorry to hear about your wife—she's in recovery now, so maybe you'll get there before she wakes up." The co-pilot gave a tentative smile. "You okay? It's a little different flying this way."

Grissom nodded, "I'm fine. How—how did you hear about Sara?" This entire trip seemed to be a foggy dream and how this pilot knew Sara's condition was beyond his capacity to understand.

The man sat across from Grissom. "It's all tied together. When we called ahead that we had a passenger for Nellis, gave your name, our contact called the hospital for continued updates to pass along to you. You were sleeping when we got a previous update so I thought it better to let you sleep."

Grissom's curiosity overwhelmed him. "Who are you? This plane, I mean. Can I ask? I'm just a volunteer looking at butterflies."

The co-pilot passed him a card. "Private charter group used by thirteen federal agencies and a dozen research groups. Depending on where you are, we can get someone to a destination, day or night, faster and without security hassles, much easier than commercial flights. You were lucky today—we were in Mexico City waiting for the three other passengers and you became our fourth. Vegas is a quick stop on our way to the west coast—happy we could help."

Pointing behind him, the pilot said, "The guy not in uniform says he worked with a young investigator in Vegas years ago." When Grissom looked surprised, he added, "We told the others our first stop was Vegas because your wife had been wounded while on duty. He thought you might know the young woman."

"Oh." Grissom turned to look at the other man who raised a hand in return. Grissom curled a finger to invite the man to join them.

"Hi, Dr. Grissom," he said as he took the seat next to Grissom. "Beckman," he introduced himself. "I was with Secret Service years ago in Vegas on a counterfeit case. You were out of town when we worked a case involving a young woman from your lab—I'm sure her name was Sara Sidle—we tried to get her to move to the federal level several times. Always refused. Maybe that's why I remember her name."

The two men shook hands and the co-pilot moved back into the cockpit, adding as he left, "Fifteen minutes until we're on the ground."

"It's a small world," Grissom said. And for the remaining time, he talked about Sara to Beckman, who asked questions and listened, but offered nothing more about himself.

At Nellis Air Force base, just as promised, a dark blue car and military driver waited for Grissom. Without a word of direction, Grissom was driven to the hospital. Trying to clear his head of spinning thoughts, he entered the cool hospital and searched for directions to recovery. Once in the elevator, he pressed a button and the slow rise almost made him sick. He rubbed his eyes as the doors slid open and automatically stepped out of the elevator. Standing in front of him, several yards away, heads turning in his direction, were Catherine, Greg, Nick, Jim and Ecklie along with a very tall man in a white coat.

In seconds, Catherine reached him, saying, "You're here! Why didn't you call? She's in recovery…"

Grissom recognized the tall physician. His mind reeled, his body staggered, he heard nothing Catherine said. He was concentrating on the doctor—eight years ago, the unsolved murder of Debbie Marlin—his own words returned and spun in his brain. "Young and beautiful", "care about", "a new life", "a wonderful life" and their chief suspect's response had been "I'm still here" as he walked away, free of charges, free to continue his life, his profession. Vincent Lurie's eyes met Grissom's.

_A/N: Thanks for reading-reviews from everyone? Lurie was one who got away from Grissom-so now we have him as Sara's surgeon! _


	4. Chapter 4

**Getting There**

Chapter 4

_Desert Palm Hospital, Las Vegas_

Catherine's hand left his arm as Grissom stepped forward. The others had already parted to form a path between the two men. Somehow, Grissom had jammed his hands in the pockets of his pants, realizing his fingers were clenched into a fist.

Dr. Lurie stepped back, extending an arm in the direction of double doors. "Your wife is in recovery—I'm sure she would like to see you when she opens her eyes."

Grissom took a deep breath, aware of the quiet around him; suddenly, he remembered he had not changed clothes or washed his hands since leaving Mexico. He flattened a palm on his pants. "I—I need to wash my hands." His voice cracked as he spoke. He was finally with Sara and she was alive—alive. He blinked back unexpected tears.

Lurie nodded. "There's a place inside—a gown you can put over your clothes."

Grissom left the group without another word as he followed Lurie through the doors.

A collective sigh seemed to come from those left standing in the hallway. Brass was the first to speak: "That went well—unexpected, but well. Do you think Grissom recognized him?"

Catherine and Greg eyed Brass as if he were trying to explain a bad joke.

Nick shook his head. "I don't remember this case except for hearing the dead girl looked like Sara."

Catherine huffed. "Grissom spent three shifts searching for evidence—thought he had found something—do you remember, Greg? Was it jewelry? I was sure Grissom would get a confession and this guy walked."

Ecklie shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing we can do about it now. Everyone says this guy is the best micro-surgeon in the state, maybe the region. If Sara has minimal damage, if she regains the use of her arm—he may be another Ted Bundy—but Grissom won't care as long as Sara is okay." He stepped away to leave. "I'm heading back to work—some of you hang around and see what Grissom needs." He nodded his head as a way of leave-taking and stepped into the elevator.

Dr. Lurie quickly explained Sara's injuries while Grissom washed his hands and face and tied a disposable gown over his clothes.

"Massive, in a word," he said. The high caliber bullet had ricocheted around like a pinball, on entry creating a three-quarter inch hole in her scapula before entering her lung, exiting, hitting a rib, breaking it, causing another puncture in the lining of her lung. It bounced or tumbled around before hitting her clavicle causing the bone to crack, then hit the sternum which caused the bullet to curve to the right, missing the heart and major blood vessels before exiting mid-chest. There was muscle and nerve damage in addition to the bone and lung injuries.

"All of this happened in a blink of an eye—probably felt as if she had been hit with a baseball bat. She's not completely out of the woods and the next couple of days will be rough—we'll keep her sedated but not so much that she will be comatose. She has two chest drains, a small plate over the hole in the scapula, the clavicle bone has been repaired, and a small pin put in the rib to hold it in place. She's on a respiratory monitor to help her breathe and that's uncomfortable. Her wounds will heal but there is nerve damage which will affect her right arm. We'll deal with that later."

All Grissom could do was nod his head and follow the physician as they entered an area where curtains provided a degree of privacy between recovering patients.

"She's here," Lurie said as he pulled back a curtain. "She's strong, she'll recover—I'm not sure how long it will take, but for now let her hear your voice, touch her so she knows you are here. The nurses will move her to the critical care unit in a couple of hours." He stepped aside for Grissom to pass.

Grissom held out his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Lurie, thank you for what you've done."

The physician, surprised, shook hands with Grissom and nodded once before turning away. Grissom entered the pale blue cocoon created by curtains and lights, monitors and machines. Sara was covered from chin to toes with a white blanket, her face turned slightly to the left. He sat in the lone chair and sought her hand underneath the sheet; except for the breathing apparatus covering her mouth and nose, she appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

_Endless hours washed in a sea of confusion_, a labyrinth of blurred images and disconnected snatches of voices from the other side of an invisible wall came together in her brain. Images came in dreams caught up in pain without an awakening. Sara heard Grissom's voice and cried when she remembered he could not be with her. She had left him in Vegas as she traveled but then she remembered he had arrived and she knew it was his hand on her face. She dreamed of her mother thinking it was her mother's hand brushing her hair, and tried to smile but her lips seemed frozen; then the dream shivered and her mother disappeared. And she dreamed of the lab exploding—was this why her body hurt—and seeing Greg on the floor.

Slowly, her body began to reassert and claim itself. The anesthesia burnt out and late in the night she swam up towards rationality to open her eyes to a white ceiling, the soft sounds of machines behind her head, and a pair of blue eyes looking at her. Bit by bit, she floated, finally blinking her eyes until she knew she was being watched and she knew by whom.

"Gil," she tried to say, but something prevented her from making a sound.

He answered with smiling eyes. "Hi, Honey."

Her eyes closed trying to remember why he was watching her so intensely. "Gil," she attempted to say his name again. This time, she felt his fingers on her face, and she opened her eyes again.

"You've had surgery, Sara. You're going to be fine, honey."

Grissom had bent to her face, his mouth near her ear. She did not have to move to be able to smell his familiar scent; he had recently showered. She could see in intricate details the texture of his hair, the soft wrinkles at his eye, and the slight curve of his ear. He lifted his face but kept it near her as he placed warm fingers on her cheeks and let his thumbs caress her throat. She could see exhaustion now, around his eyes that told her he had not slept in some time. But his eyes were calm, clear, and a faint smile played at the corners of his exquisite mouth—a mouth she wanted to kiss.

Sara tried to smile but, again, her mouth seemed to be captured, or frozen in place.

"You had us worried for a while, but you're going to be fine. You have a broken collarbone, a broken rib, and you're patched up from a gun shot wound to your shoulder." He touched the device covering her mouth and nose. "This will be gone soon—you've got some lung damage and this is helping you breathe."

Again she tried to smile.

"Blink your eyes if you understand," he whispered. "That's good." He smiled.

Sara wanted to kiss him but her eyelids were so heavy she could not keep her eyes open; she closed her eyes. And felt the gentle press of lips to her right eye, then her left one.

When she woke again, Sara knew she was in a different place. Natural light came through a window and its fuzzy glare was broken in several places by darker shapes. As her eyes focused, she could see Grissom standing on one side of the bed and a white-coated person on the other. White-coat laid firm fingers on her wrist.

"She's waking up," said the young doctor. "Good morning, Mrs. Grissom." His hands moved to her shoulder. "You haven't really been with us for a couple of days—would you like a bit of water?" He nodded to Grissom. "Just a bit until you get used to swallowing again." He lifted the covering on her shoulder. "Don't try to talk too much—your husband can tell you what's happened, but you're healing well." His hand moved to her right hand. "Try to squeeze my hand."

The movement of her hand was weaker than a newborn's. He smiled. "That's okay—it'll get better." He drew a fingernail across her palm. "Can you feel that?" She nodded. "Good. I'll leave you for now—continue to rest." He smiled again before writing on his electronic pad. "We'll get you out of here in a few days."

Low voices woke her in the afternoon—the room was dim but shadows had moved and her shoulder, chest and head throbbed. She must have made a noise because two faces immediately bent over her.

"Here, drink," Grissom said as he offered her a straw.

Jim Brass grinned as Grissom held the water cup for her. Her eyes moved from one man to the other and she smiled. Her mouth actually worked this time. She let her tongue wet her lips before she spoke.

"Hey," she whispered. Her voice sounded strange to her ears. "I thought you were in Mexico."

_A/N: Okay, readers, do the right thing, hit "review"-this is mid-point of this story. Let us know what you think. Thanks so much to all of you who send comments! A few more surprises coming up..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Getting There**

**Chapter 5**

Grissom's smile was genuine; his eyes sparkled. "I'm back—to take care of you, dear."

"You've had a rest—different shirt," she whispered. She felt so tired. It hurt to talk; it hurt to breathe.

"I have. The chair works well for a nap. Jim brought more clothes. How are you feeling?"

She tried to laugh, but it sounded like a grunt and pain intensified. "Like a big piece of lead passed through me and took a chunk of my chest with it."

She heard Brass chuckle and looked past Grissom's face to see him standing near her feet. "Hey, Jim," she whispered.

His fingers touched her foot, giving a gentle massage. "Hi, sweetie." His eyes looked so worried for a few seconds Sara thought she might be dying but decided she hurt too much to be dying. "Do you remember much?" He asked.

She shook her head. "Catherine and I were working a burned out house—and the last thing I remember is putting evidence in the car."

Brass cleared his throat while Grissom placed the straw to her lips. "An old guy from across the street came out of his house with a gun. No one noticed until he pulled the trigger—a Beretta converted to fire .22 caliber—he got off two shots before the uniforms unloaded. The first shot hit you in the back. The second one went into the house and put a hole in your kit—this big." He made a circle with his index finger and thumb. Grissom frowned. "Everyone says the old man was confused, didn't know what was going on. Has no record, nothing—died on the scene." His hand went back to massaging her foot. "You gonna get better, sweetie. It's rough going at first, but you'll be fine." His hand moved to her calf and he patted her leg. "You're going to get better."

Grissom leaned over and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes. "I'm so tired, Gil. I just want to sleep."

During the night, Sara woke to the feel of fingers on her neck. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust and the nurse saw she was awake.

"Sorry," the nurse whispered. "I didn't want to wake you or your husband." Her soft fingers moved along Sara's shoulder, checking the dressing that wrapped the wound. "How's your back? Any specific pain?"

"No, just hurt all over." She wiped her left hand across her face and tried to locate her water cup.

The nurse checked several monitors above Sara's head. As sleep lifted and her head cleared, Sara heard Grissom's quiet breathing coming from the chair in the corner. The nurse lifted the sheet to check the chest drainage tubes and, for the first time, Sara got a clear look at her face.

"Tina?"

The woman smiled. "I didn't know if you would remember me."

Sara certainly remembered the woman who had married Warrick Brown and remembered the day she learned of Warrick's child. "Of course, I do—how are you? How is Eli?"

"Good, both of us." She held her hand out. "I've remarried. My husband adopted Eli last year," she whispered. "I was here your first night, but Dr. Grissom was so exhausted, so worried about you, I don't think he noticed me."

"Let me wake him," Sara nodded in the direction of the chair. "Gil!" She croaked his name and he instantly sat up. "Wake up! Tina is working tonight—Eli's mother."

Grissom managed to shake a blanket away from his shoulders and stand before he realized what Sara was saying. "Who? Tina?" He came to the bedside, hand rubbing his face, and then said: "Tina—Tina—it's good to see you again." Sara wasn't sure he remembered until he asked, "How's Eli? I heard you had married."

"I have—we're very happy. Eli's happy." She smoothed the bed covers over Sara. "I tried not to wake either of you but the patient always wakes up."

"I'm glad I did," Sara said. She winced as she tried to raise herself with one hand. Tina reached to help her.

"Would you like sit up? Dangling your feet for a while?" When Sara nodded, Tina motioned Grissom to one side and the two turned and rearranged her so her feet were off the bed. "We'll get you up and out of here in no time," Tina said. "You got the best surgeon in Nevada when you came in—he was ready to leave for vacation and stayed to take care of you."

"The surgeon?" Grissom asked.

Tina nodded. "We love having him here—he's a gifted surgeon. He does so much micro-surgery—even for the uninsured, but anyone in law enforcement, public service—Dr. Lurie will come in anytime. We had a homeless guy whose hand was nearly severed when he jumped from a train—Dr. Lurie spent sixteen hours working on that guy. And he left here with his hand. Most surgeons would not have tried, but Dr. Lurie did." She inspected Sara's hand. "Any movement or feelings, tingling sensation coming back yet?"

"I think so—my thumb and index finger seem to feel something."

"Give it time—your blood flow is good." She moved her fingernail across Sara's palm. "See how your fingers curl just a little—that will improve every day."

They talked a while longer, hearing about Eli and his accomplishments in preschool and his efforts to learn to ride his bike. Before leaving the room, she promised a future visit to include Eli.

Grissom and Sara were quiet after Tina left. Finally, Grissom said, "I still have a hard time thinking…"

Sara's left hand reached for his when his voice faltered. "I know, so do I."

He reached for a chair to sit beside her.

"Get in bed with me," Sara whispered. His eyebrow lifted. "I'm cold," she said with a grin.

Grissom walked back to his sleeping spot, got the blanket and returned. "I'm not sure this is a good idea," he mused.

Sara managed to scoot her hips and legs over and patted the space beside her. "We've slept in tighter spaces."

He crawled onto the bed, lying on his side. "You sure you have enough room?"

"I don't need much." She tucked her head against his chin and neck.

Gently, he reached for her right hand and held it in his. "You're going to be fine, Sara."

She snuggled and wrapped a leg over his. "When were you going to tell me about Dr. Lurie?"

He chuckled. "Sara, I nearly fainted when I walked in. I had forgotten about that guy and in a flash, I could recall that entire case—felt like I was in a time warp. But he was—he was helpful, and he had worked hours on you. I thanked him—sincerely. When the other surgeon came in the next day, he said Dr. Lurie had gone on vacation. Like Tina, he couldn't stop talking about what a great surgeon Lurie is." Grissom settled on his side, crooked his arm underneath his head. "You know that case got to me—the female victim looked so much like you—and I could never find the evidence I needed."

Sara made a weak humming sound. "Stay here, okay," she asked. "I can sleep better." She sighed heavily. "You know, maybe Dr. Lurie did kill those two people—we'll never know. And maybe he's trying to make amends, atone for his sins by working on what's destroyed, doing all he can to give us hope that we can heal."

Grissom's arm tightened across her waist. "I'm glad he was here to take care of the person dearest to me. Next time I leave home, you'll go with me." Sara turned her face to his and kissed the first spot she found—his nose. He moved his lips to meet hers. "Sleep, Sara."

_A/N: Reviews, please! And another chapter soon! Thanks to everyone for reading! _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading, and more thanks to those who "reward" us with a review!_

**Getting There**

**Chapter 6**

Sara remained in the hospital several more days; bandages, tape, and tubes were removed and a slight degree of movement gradually returned to her arm and shoulder. Respiratory therapists arrived multiple times each day for breathing treatments and lung exercises leaving her so exhausted she could barely eat. On the fifth day, more therapists arrived to work on her shoulder, arm and hand, testing strength and reaction of muscles and nerves. She could not make a fist or a circle with thumb and index finger but her fingers would flex.

She complained to the young doctor, "I'm ready to go home! I'll do all these exercises—I'll come back for therapy. I'd love to sleep in my own bed."

He had endured her pleas for several days with a smile but today, he said, "We are meeting this afternoon about you—the docs, the therapists, so I expect you'll get good news later today."

As Sara picked at her dinner, having no appetite for anything, Dr. Lurie knocked on the partly opened door. The nurse with him was Tina.

"Mrs. Grissom, you are looking much better," he said.

"I am, thank you," she answered. She immediately recognized the man she had watched from the observation room years before; it was a time when she had almost given up hope of knowing Grissom's true feelings for her until she heard his words to a stranger. She vividly remembered the downward spiral of her emotions afterwards. And now the same man stood beside her bed. She wanted to feel contempt for Dr. Lurie for what he had probably done to the young nurse and doctor but, in her present condition, she respected his skill.

He asked to look at her shoulder and she pushed the food tray to one side. "We'll discharge you tomorrow but you are going to have weeks of therapy to get your shoulder working as it should." Gently, he pulled her back away from the bed and checked what had been the bullet's entry wound. "Looks good," he said, and said it again when he looked at the stitches across her shoulder and down her chest. "I apologize for the scar. It may fade with time." He examined her hand and she showed how she could move her fingers.

"It's improving," she said.

"It will continue to improve," he assured her. "Therapy—do what the hand therapist tells you to do. Same with the shoulder—strength and flexibility will return. Nerves will improve. In a year, this will be a dim dream."

Tina worked on replacing the dressing as Lurie silently watched for a few minutes. "I met your husband years ago, Mrs. Grissom. He's a good man—thoughtful, dedicated, principled. I'm sure you know this," he smiled quickly and left the room.

"His bedside manner isn't the greatest," Tina said with a smile. "But his talent makes up for it."

She was discharged the next morning. Once home, Sara ate obediently, slept, sat in the sun, and went to therapy. She worked relentlessly at restoring strength to her shoulder and hand, but all of it had an emptiness to it. She slept because she was tired, ate because Grissom placed food in front of her, and at times she found herself staring into an unblinking distance. Grissom was patient, gentle, always near, and knew something was wrong, something missing in her recovery. He invited their friends for dinner and then whispered that Sara needed frequent company. Nick returned the next day with several books. Jim came one morning with fresh, hot sticky buns and Greg arrived to help eat them. With the two men as their breakfast guests, Sara laughed and talked but after they left, she fell into silence as she pretended to read a book.

Everyone around her was optimistic yet she grew more fearful as days passed with little improvement. Her thumb and fingers would not meet; she could not make a fist; sensation was returning, but her hand did not work. No one voiced it, but she knew her work at the lab had ended. She would never be able to work without two good hands. Grissom mentioned travel; she stopped him by leaving the room—she could not tie her own shoes or carry a bag or use a knife and fork. The helplessness of her future clouded her thoughts yet she tried to remind herself that she had her life, her loving husband, her good friends, good health—and her sadness deepened.

Sweetly and tenderly, Grissom initiated love-making, gently touching her with soft hands in places that were usually delightfully sexual. When he reached the valley between her breasts, with its new pink scar, Sara placed her left hand over her chest. Thinking it painful, he moved to another intimate place which usually caused a sparkle of desire, but he knew she did not respond in her usual way—too soon, he thought, she was still bruised, in pain. He decided to hold her, comfort her, and be there when she was ready. He helped her bathe, dress, eat, and watched as she tried to hide a deepening depression. He considered talking to the department psychologist when he thought of something else.

Sara heard the phone ring and ignored it, hearing Grissom's voice talking softly to someone. A few minutes later, he came to her with her shoes in his hand. "We're going for a walk." He said as he placed a shoe on her foot and tied its laces. "It's a beautiful day and Hank would enjoy a walk to the park." He grinned. "And there's someone at the park I want to see."

Sara looked puzzled, "Who?"

"Let's go—you've been inside too long."

They had purchased the condo because of its nearness to the park—five minutes and Hank had a 'yard' to enjoy. But today, Grissom directed their walk away from the dog park and toward the children's playground. Sara was more confused.

Grissom pointed. "There they are."

A woman stood near the pirate ship in the play yard, her hands were on the backside of a small child as he climbed.

"Eli," whispered Sara.

"Yeah, we talked and Tina suggested we meet them here." He looked at Sara. "You okay?"

She nodded as they walked to the pirate ship. In minutes, Sara, Grissom and Hank were three new friends for the little boy. He showed off his climbing ability. He found a pipe in the 'crow's nest' that he could speak into and be heard by the adults on the ground. His giggling voice caused the three adults to laugh and he climbed and dangled and crawled on every surface for his audience. Finally, he came to rest beside Sara.

"Climb with me to the top," he suggested. "It's really high—you can see way, way, way!" His arms stretched out, and then he decided to crawl into Sara's lap. Her left hand went to his hair, a soft nest of curls so much like Warrick's. His green eyes looked at Sara. "Will you climb with me? We can tell secrets!" His smile showed perfect little white teeth. Sara hesitated. "Please," the child said and smiled again, eyes wide, and without another thought, Sara nodded her head.

"Let's climb!"

"Sara," Grissom cautioned. She grinned as she followed Eli and waved her good hand. The playground pirate ship was enormous in the eyes of a child, but a one arm-pull-up got Sara to the highest level where she folded legs underneath her as Eli showed her the talking tube. For fifteen minutes, he repeatedly slid down a pole, ran to the bottom of the tube where he and Sara shared whispered secrets and giggled, then climbed the ladder before doing it again. The little boy played until his mother suggested snacks and they moved to a nearby table.

"Sara has a hurt hand, Mom," Eli announced between bites of his sandwich. "She said you helped her in the hospital." He reached for Sara's right hand. "But today I'm helping her." He wiggled his hand underneath Sara's. "When I move my hand, she can move hers! See!"

Eli's attention was diverted to the dog when Grissom suggested the need to walk Hank in the dog park and the two headed in that direction while Tina and Sara cleaned the table.

"I hope he's not too much for you, Sara. He's got lots of energy."

Sara shook her head. "No, he isn't. Thank you, Tina. I needed the diversion of a little boy. I think I've been wrapped up in my own misery for too long."

Tina's easy laugh contradicted what she said: "It's easy to be miserable, Sara. After Warrick and I separated, I had a bad time for a while, then it only got worse when—when I wasn't sure who Eli's father was. After Eli was born, I knew I had to change, put some things behind me and that's the only way I managed life after Warrick was killed. I really did love him—and he loved me, I'm sure of it." She stopped and watched Eli run in circles around Grissom and Hank. "Warrick and I let anger and self-pity ruin happiness." She smiled and reached for Sara's hand. "Don't let this disrupt your life. Keep going—keep smiling and keep loving your husband."

Sara and Grissom sat in the sun long after Tina and Eli left. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and started to cry; a bitter sound tore out of her throat and turned into a sob as she tried to stop her tears. She leaned against her husband as pain shot through her shoulder and cried until she was empty of tears, and then, she fell asleep in the afternoon sunshine as Grissom stroked her hair with gentle hands.

When she woke, the sun was lower in the sky; Grissom had not moved and Hank was curled around her feet. She turned, awkward and stiff from her position, and looked at the clear blue sky, and to the clear blue eyes watching her. She felt better than she had in days and spontaneously leaned to kiss him, prolonging contact as he returned her kiss. For a while, they continued sitting on the park bench; Grissom finally broke the silence.

"Let's go home and get you a bathe," he said as he gathered Hank's leash in one hand and wrapped the other around her damaged hand.

"Do I stink?" She asked in confusion.

"No," Grissom said seriously. "I just want an excuse to touch you."

_A/N: Again, thank you for reading our little fanfic! Let us know what you think..._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: A little bit of smut in this one-nothing bad, just a warning!_

**Getting There**

**Chapter 7 **

A change occurred after the trip to the park. Grissom could not figure out exactly what happened; he wasn't sure Sara knew, but within days, she had pulled back from the melancholy despondency that had gripped her since her hospital stay. Her emotional state improved, and so did her desire. It stirred and kindled with the bath as he sponged warm water over her body. He dried her body with a warm towel and wrapped arms around her in bed but did not make love to her. Instead, he told her funny stories and made her laugh as she realized how much he loved her. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand on his heart.

Desire ignited and flamed the next day as they ate pancakes with warm maple syrup. Grissom touched her lip with the corner of his napkin and she laughed.

"Eating is different using my left hand," she said. He touched her lip with his thumb and with a slight move, she kissed it, then sucked it into her mouth. A grin remained on her face, and when she tugged at his shirt, with little resistant on his part, backing him into the bedroom, he could not stop smiling.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

"You can't hurt me, Gil," she answered as her fingers laced into his hair. With an effort, she circled her right arm around his neck. "I want to hold you with both of my hands—this is so frustrating."

"Shhhh—let me take your hand, honey." He pulled her hand into his, entwined their fingers and folded their arms together. "Now, you are holding me and I'm holding you—how it should be." He kissed her chin, moved his lips along her jaw, nibbled her ear, and breathed the fragrance of her hair. "I love you, Sara," he whispered before moving his mouth to her lips.

When his knee gently separated her legs, he did not have to move much to find what his body sought. Her legs opened, her left hand found his erection and guided it into her. He made a sound as he entered her and heard the sweet gasp of passion as he pushed into the warm, wet core of her sex.

Easy, quiet days followed. Therapy sessions changed noticeably to a calmer, more peaceful routine and the frenzied pace of her exercises at home disappeared. They settled into a predictable pattern of seeing their friends, sharing housework, shopping, and cooking duties, walking Hank, and Sara's shoulder and hand continued to improve, but her fingers failed to grasp as lack of feeling remained. She accepted and learned to use several adaptive devices for her hand which meant she could hold a fork or a hair brush with her right hand.

For her follow-up surgical appointment, she saw the younger physician, Dr. Hughes, instead of Dr. Lurie. He assured her of improvement. "It can take a year—don't give up!" He examined her scars and pronounced what she already knew—she had made excellent progress. The doctor's good manners and ease in talking made Sara smile. He might not be a great surgeon, but patients would love him.

"When can I return to work?" She asked.

He flipped back to her history. "Crime scene investigator, right?" She nodded. For several minutes, he seemed interested in her chart, turning page after page. Too interested, she thought; he was stalling. Finally, he closed the chart and placed his pen in front of her. "Can you use a pen—pick one up with your right hand?"

She swept the pen to her left hand. "I've got two hands."

The physician grinned. "You can return to work. But you know you will be limited. You need to continue your therapy—perhaps go back to work part-time, a few hours." She nodded. He sighed and took her right hand, turning it over, bending each finger. He used the pen to test her sense of touch, taking such a long time, Sara knew he was gathering courage to say something else. Finally, he said: "Mrs. Grissom, you can take six months—a year off if you need it. You were injured on the job—I strongly suggest you think about a leave of absence, medical leave until you fully recover."

Sara knew another leave would end her career; call it medical leave, disability leave, but by any name, she would not return to the crime lab as an investigator. She would probably not return to the lab at all if her right hand failed to improve. She left the office in a weird mood—not sad or depressed as she had been, but thoughtful, pensive as she thought about what the physician had said. She was almost to her car when she was stopped by someone calling her name.

"Mrs. Grissom, isn't it?" Dr. Lurie stood in her path.

She nodded. "I've just had my follow-up appointment with Dr. Hughes," she said motioning to the building.

He placed an expensive briefcase at his feet and held out his hand. "Let me see how your shoulder and hand are doing."

She rotated her shoulder; he said: "Good." She extended her arm. "How're your fingers?" He took her hand in his, examining it in the same way the other physician had. She moved her fingers. "Not much range yet—that will improve." Using both hands, he moved her fingers to meet her thumb. "That's good—your muscles have good tone." He pressed a fingernail into the pad of her finger which she could not feel. "Nerve injuries take a long time to heal—and you had extensive damage to these nerves." He released her hand. "You will improve—time and therapy." He smiled and picked up the briefcase. "It's good to see you again."

Sara continued to her car, thinking how strange it was to have her hand gently held by a man she knew had killed two people. The thought added to the confused state in her mind. She pressed the 'start' button in her car—at least she didn't have to turn a key, she thought. By the time she arrived home, she decided one word—ambivalent—could describe her feelings—undecided and confused, but not in a bad way. She wasn't depressed or unhappy but she wasn't—she turned into their garage—laughing softly at her thoughts—for the first time in her life, she had nothing to do.

Grissom was waiting and quietly let her tell him the results of her visit including the parking lot encounter with Dr. Lurie.

"I know a report will be sent to Catherine and Ecklie. I know Ecklie will insist I take leave," she sighed, "but I think I'm ambivalent about all of it," she said.

"Ambivalent is a good word," he said, agreeing with her.

For a long moment, Sara just looked at him, leaning against the kitchen cabinet. He was the most beautiful person she had ever known, the most important person in her life. His hair was almost white now, longer in length, a bird's nest of tangled curls. The white suited him, she thought. She leaned to him and kissed him—he wasn't much taller than she was and in his socks, he was precisely the right height to hold and be held, to kiss and be kissed.

Grissom gently returned her kiss. She smiled. He was the best kisser of any man she had ever kissed. Most men thought they were good kissers; most were wrong. He needed to know that.

"You kiss better than anyone else," she said letting her left thumb trace his lips. His eyebrow lifted. "Well, anyone I've ever kissed," she clarified. His smile was enough to close the dark hole of uncertainty bouncing around her brain.

"Talk to Catherine, Sara. Take the leave of absence. We'll be fine—you'll bet better. I promise."

Since she had known him, Grissom made few promises; those he did make had never been broken. Sara was content with that.

_A/N: Thanks for reading and your comments! Next chapter has a scene of sweet smut for those of you who like a lovin' Grissom! Enjoy, review, and next chapter quickly. (10 chapters in this story.)_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: We did not change the rating, but this chapter has Grissom and Sara enjoying each other-bit of sweet smut but not graphic. Review!_

**Getting There**

**Chapter 8 **

As it turned out, when Ecklie received a medical report on Sara Sidle Grissom, it initiated a new round of examinations and testing by another group of physicians and therapists who made the same recommendations—Sara was given six months of leave.

Catherine brought the official letter. "It's temporary, Sara. You're hand will get better—you'll be back before six months."

Sara knew Catherine meant well, she knew the guys would be by later to commiserate, to say all the right things about missing her until she returned. Oddly, she felt relieved; the decision had not been hers and now she could concentrate on what was ahead—therapy, more therapy, and nothing else but time with her husband. She looked at her hand, now covered by a new "pressure glove" meant to improve strength, circulation, and flexibility. The specialist had said "a hand can move a million times a day" as he fitted the glove over her fingers. Hers was not moving enough, hence the glove.

Into this adjustment of their lives came a letter—one Grissom placed aside as he checked and pitched several pieces of mail—and promptly forgot when Sara came toward him with one of her sensual smiles wearing a tank top and boyleg panties that barely covered her butt and nothing else. In minutes of kissing her, desire threatened to consume every sensation and it took all the control he possessed not to strip her naked in the kitchen.

"What brought this on in mid-afternoon?" He asked as he took her in his arms.

"Afternoon delight—no therapy today. Catherine came with the news, and when Greg called, I suggested meeting them for dinner before shift—so we have hours to ourselves. We can do anything we want—and I want you!" She slipped her left hand under his shirt and slid her palm across his chest.

His grin spread across his face. "I think I'm going to enjoy this."

While her hand had limited range of motion, Sara's mouth and left hand worked just fine as she was more than willing to demonstrate. When his fingers closed over her hips the feel of soft lace on her firm butt almost sent him over the edge. He pulled her tightly against his hips. Without knowing it, his thoughts mirrored hers—she fit into all the right places. His hands moved around her waist and he could see her breasts swell and the peaks of her nipples pressing against the thin fabric. He placed lips against her hair, found her ear, and then caught her ear lobe between his teeth. The sound of pleasure escaped her throat. His hands moved from her waist to her back as he massaged fingers against her spine; her back arched and a groan of desire moved them from kitchen to bedroom.

It was so easy to love him, Sara thought. After Catherine left and Greg called, she agreed to dinner—for the first time in a very long time, neither of them had plans. So she made her own by stripping off pants and top and leaning against the doorway as Grissom returned with mail. It took him several minutes to look in her direction and the handful of mail was forgotten when she took several steps in his direction.

Her right hand and fingers were nearly useless, but she intended to make up for—for a lot of things as her lips kissed his throat and then his chest; her left hand slid under his shirt and with his help, the shirt was tossed. When his mouth closed on her earlobe, she almost lost the ability to move slowly—she was ready to wrap her legs around his and jump on the erection she felt through his pants. But she knew—between her weak right shoulder and hand and his bad knees—they would end up on the floor. When his fingers moved gently along her spine, she did go weak in the knees.

The two tumbled onto the bed and quickly, Grissom stripped off his pants, but he stopped Sara when her hand went to the lacy fabric of her panties. He grinned a somewhat wicked smile.

"I'll take care of those," he whispered before placing his face against her abdomen. As he kissed and tasted her skin, he slowly worked his head under her shirt using his nose and mouth while his hands played with her butt, sliding her panties down her legs. Every few seconds, a muffled growl emanated from low in his chest as he pushed and tugged the fabric upward. With a fast move, he gathered the shirt and pulled it over her head and made a satisfied moan as he placed his face in the valley created by her breasts. His hands went back to her backside and traced the cleft that separated her butt; his fingers dipped lower, finding the place where she was already damp, aching with desire.

Slowly, he moved along her body, finding the place where her breast rose from her chest and proceeded to kiss her, taste her, and gently blow warm breaths along her skin until she was twisting and lifting against him, trying to catch the bobbing erection between her legs. She tightened fingers in his hair as he moved downward, stopping briefly to examine her navel with his tongue. He heard a soft laugh as he did so. When he moved again, he did not stop until he found the triangle of dark hair between her thighs and, raising her knees on either side of his head as he removed her panties, he found the throbbing, sensitive bud and began to work it with his fingers. She was already damp and within a few minutes, she was so wet his fingers glistened. He lowered his head and kissed her as he slid one finger, then a second one into her, probing and stroking gently, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that created an amazing undulation effect on her muscles.

"Gil," she gasped, wiggling to raise her head. "I can't take much of this—get up here!" As he kept his fingers working, she moaned and fell back. Her hand twisted in the sheets and her entire body tensed as she made a soft exclamation as waves of pleasure rippled, swelled, and flowed through her.

As quickly as he could move, he propelled himself to cover her body, guiding his erection deep inside her. The snug tightness, the damp warmness surrounding the most sensitive part of his anatomy caused an immense physical reaction from his brain to his groin. He rocked against her, moving faster until, with a heavy groan, he collapsed, sprawling in a very possessive way over his wife.

They lay quietly for a time, taking in the sensations of warmth and tenderness between them with words being unnecessary.

Finally, Grissom spoke: "We got another rejection letter." He had repositioned himself in what Sara named his "John Lennon pose"—he lay beside her with one arm circling her head, a bent leg over her abdomen, and his foot strategically placed between her thighs. When he pointed out there were several differences in his position and the iconic photograph, she laughed and suggested John's foot had probably been moved.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Which one?"

They had worked tirelessly applying for grants with no success. Every researcher welcomed a knowledgeable scientist willing to work in the field yet Grissom wanted more—he wanted to do his own research, on a topic of his choosing. Sara wanted it because he did. Nineteen times they had filled out forms, written application plans, and received letters of rejection all written in very positive terms but saying the same things—limited funds available, on-going projects needed funding, and other varied reasons.

"I didn't look," he chuckled. "I think I was distracted by something else."

Sara burrowed her face against his neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell good—even after sweaty sex."

Grissom's hand slipped to where his foot had been cradled; he stroked her several times letting his finger slide between her folds. "The next grant application I write is going to be on the subject of sex—how many times can my wife…"

His words were cut off by Sara's giggles.

_A/N: Reviews bring the next chapter quicker-even if you never review, we'd like to hear from you! Thanks to everyone!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Getting There**

**Chapter 9 **

_Frank's Diner, Las Vegas_

"They are late," Catherine complained.

Greg snickered. Nick cleared his throat. Brass smiled.

Catherine elbowed Greg. "It's not always that."

Greg's snicker turned into a girlish giggle. "It is with them."

Brass chuckled.

"What's that? What are you talking about?" Nick asked as he looked from one to the other, confusion on his face.

Brass whispered, "Sex—Greg thinks Sara and Grissom do it all the time."

Nick dropped his head and laughed, then straightened his face, saying, "Well, you know he does have that funny walk anytime Sara's around."

Catherine's laughter caused people four tables away to look in their direction.

Greg's fist beat the table with enough force to cause coffee to slosh out of cups.

Brass' entire body shook, tears came to his eyes.

"Hey, guys, what's so funny?"

Four pairs of eyes met Sara's. Four brains processed what they saw in her face. Eight eyes flickered to Grissom, seeing the same pink flush of skin, lips fuller than usual, eyes sparkling, and damp hair indicating a rushed shower.

Catherine tried to choke her giggles as Brass wiped his face but Nick and Greg laughed so hard one of them snorted which caused another round of laughter.

Sara and Grissom remained standing, confused, until Brass waved his hand to empty seats. "Greg was telling a story," he explained as the reason for the snorts and laughs. "As usual, he got his tongue going before his brain kicked in gear."

Grissom nodded to the arriving waitress and held up two fingers. "Okay, what's the story?"

At that moment, everyone found something to do—stir coffee, swallow coffee, reach for sweetener. Finally, Greg said "I'll tell you later—some people do not appreciate my observation skills."

Their waitress returned with two cups of coffee asking for orders she never wrote but repeated with accuracy of one familiar with her customers. Waiting for meals, eating their food, the group talked as long-time friends do—conversation seemed to jump from present to past on a dozen topics. At times two or three talked while others listened, or two had what appeared to be a private conversation in the midst of chatter. When Sara described the care, prognosis, and treatment of her hand, everyone listened.

"It's sort of paralyzed right now, but they say it's nerve damage which can regenerate. Or more surgery. I have some feeling below the elbow—I can move my arm and bend my elbow." She held up her gloved hand. "I have an adaptive device to help me hold things, but I can't move my fingers to my thumb. In technical terms, I have no power grip or precision grip—right now, an ape can work his hand better than I can."

"Ahhh, sweetie, it's going to get better!" Nick encouraged. "Stay with therapy."

Sara nodded, "I keep thinking it will—I have a new doctor, a hand specialist, who says the nerves are there, they just have to remember. And to think I was so worried about my shoulder, but my hand ends up useless."

"Have you seen Lurie again?" Brass asked.

Sara bent her head and lowered her voice, "I have—the day of my follow-up—in the parking lot. It's so weird, Jim. All I can think about is how this man killed two people—cut one up and stuffed him in plastic bags…"

"Now, Sara, we don't know that—we never found evidence—he was never charged with anything," Grissom said.

"You know he did it!" She whispered loudly. "And all he could say was 'I'm still here'!" Her quote was a perfect mimic of Lurie's words.

Grissom choked on his coffee. He remembered the interview—every word—and remembered who was there—or not there—to hear what had been said. His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Sara. "You were not there—how do you know what he said?"

Her eyes widened. "I—I was there," she stammered. Her lips came together, her forehead puckered in a moment's reflection. Slowly, she said, "Observation room—the entire time."

Everyone at the table watched the two as Grissom placed his fork beside his plate and wiped his mouth with the backside of his hand. "You were there? The whole time? While I was talking?"

Sara nodded. Across the table, Nick, Greg, and Catherine saw gold flashes gathering in her eyes. All three knew an emotional upheaval was occurring behind those brown eyes. And with one gentle touch of Grissom's hand to her face, the turmoil was gone. The fire died to twinkling sparkles of affection and contentment returned.

"I'm so sorry, honey. I was a fool then," he whispered seemingly unaware of his audience. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

The others covered their own confusion and curiosity of this exchange by drinking coffee or stirring bits of food around their plates. Catherine was first to recover. "What are you going to do now?" Catherine asked Grissom. "I know—take care of Sara."

"True, I will," His arm slipped around Sara's shoulders and he pulled her close. "But she has this independent gene—I can't be a helicopter spouse so I'm going out with a university researcher who's counting spiders." He grinned at Greg. "And I'll be home every night."

Sara added, "And I'll be in therapy or seeing some specialist, or" her smiled faded to a grimace, "I'll be at home being a—a housewife."

Her remark caused another round of laughter. They knew Sara well and none could imagine how she would spend the days ahead of her.

Catherine said, "Its temporary, Sara. Read good books, watch Oprah, walk Hank, go out with Grissom—do things you've never done—like…" she shrugged. "I'm with you. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't work."

As the group left the café, they noticed how close Grissom stayed to Sara, how he never released her right hand as they waved and headed to work. Each one, checking the couple in rear view mirrors, saw Sara pull Grissom into a one-arm embrace.

Back home, Grissom took Hank for a quick walk, leaving instructions for Sara to "rest" which meant she did until he closed the door. She put dishes away, picked up his discarded shirt, and found the mail he had dropped earlier.

She glanced at the return address of one of the organizations they had applied to for a grant—a long shot when they had applied—she remembered. She made a quiet grunt as she held the envelope under one hand and slit it open with a knife. Until her hand no longer functioned, she had never given thought to every day actions that took hands, fingers and thumbs.

Unfolding the letter, already knowing its rejection words, she read the first sentence. She read it a second time as the last word jumped at her—"accepted." She read the entire letter—three paragraphs—and read it a second time. Everything they had asked for was funded. She ran to the office and opened the research application file. Since she was the chief organizer of all paperwork, she quickly found the application—one of the thin ones—only seven pages of the proposal, method of research, and needs for the project.

Sara was reading so intently, she heard nothing until Grissom said her name from the doorway. Her smile was so broad, her face so animated, he could think of nothing to bring this sudden transformation in her appearance.

"The letter—the grant—_Bombus occidentulis_—today's letter—bumblebees—it wasn't a rejection!" She searched the desk, found the letter, "Everything—three years—they gave us everything we asked for!"

In three strides he was at the desk, pulling her into the chair with him as he read the letter.

"I sent them the specimen we found—we're to look for more, alive, nests, habitat—at Mt. Charleston." He read the letter again. "You know what this means—we don't have to leave home!" He hugged her so tightly the chair rocked back and quickly tipped forward, making them laugh.

"We have to celebrate," Sara said as she left him. "I know just the thing!" She disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a bowl of cherries in the crook of her elbow and something behind her back. She giggled. "I was looking for something to cheer me up and got these yesterday." She offered the cherries. "And this!" She started backing toward the bed. In her hand, she held a can of whipped topping, real cream, Grissom noticed.

He left the chair. "Only one can?" he asked, a mischievous smile across his face.

It had been years since she had demonstrated her ability to tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue and it had fascinated him. After their relationship had moved to a more intimate level, she had shown him other things she could do with her tongue—and cherries—and whipping cream—and it involved naked bodies, lots of laughter, delicious kissing, delightfully passionate sex, followed by a shared shower and changing bed sheets. He followed her holding one cherry by its stem—he knew just where it was going. He popped it in his mouth first.

Some time later, as he smelled cherries on her breath and tasted cherries on her skin, she mumbled, "you will be home—every night" and it was a pleased, emotion filled voice he heard.

_A/N: Only one more chapter for this story, so review, please! That's what we need to write another one! Suggestions? Thanks to everyone and especially those wonderful readers who share your comments and thoughts!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Here it is-we 'got there'-the last chapter. Hope you enjoyed this little story! Let us know!_

**Getting There**

**Chapter 10**

_(Several months later) Mt. Charleston Wilderness area, northwest of Las Vegas_

Sara leaned against the sun warmed rock and folded her jacket into a pillow. She could sleep anywhere and her perch at the edge of a mountain meadow meant her rock got a full-day of sun. She adjusted her hat to shade her face, literally willing her thumb and index finger to grasp the edge of the wide brim. That done, she relaxed. She could hear the low drone of insects among the spring flowers and see her husband as he bent over a patch of purple wildflowers. Every now and then she heard the shutter of his camera as he documented certain insects—mostly bumble bees—but she knew he could not resist butterflies.

The year before he had wandered the mountainsides with camera and specimen containers, picking up dead bees to study and, by accident, had found one bumble bee thought to be extinct from the area. He was so uncertain of his find that he sent it to a small conservation and habitat management group who responded with an application for a grant and a short letter saying he had found a _Bombus occidentulis_—the western bumble bee thought to exist in only a few places when it had once been the most common bumble bee in the western half of the U.S.

She chuckled as she remembered their celebration of the grant letter—cherries and whipped cream and half the night playing with each other. Those thoughts sent a cascade of auto-responses through her body—and she felt the familiar warmth bloom below her belly and tingling her spine, causing a pale blush from her chest to her cheeks. That had been a night they would both remember for a very long time. She blushed again thinking about what they had done with those cherries.

Looking for Grissom, she saw his hat weaving among flowers and a bright reflection of his camera lens. She yawned. They had arrived at the meadow shortly after sunrise, hiking for four miles, on a seldom used switchback trail. Together they had placed grid markers on an area the size of a tennis court and then they waited—eating sandwiches and cookies—until the sun's warmth brought the insects to the flowers. This was their fifth month on the mountainside and they had followed the sun and flowers. This meadow had proven to be a treasure of activity. Ringed with trees, the land sloped slightly to the south and the wildflowers had been incredible since early spring—blooming in colors of gold and yellow, scarlet red, purples and pinks. Sara had learned names of a dozen flowers, which flowers the big bees preferred, and how to identify a dozen smaller bees.

Most of the time she took photographs while Grissom captured and documented the bees; only three times had he captured the elusive western bumble bee, but those three proved they were not extinct in southern Nevada. They were surviving in a hole or burrow in this isolated wilderness. The first photo had created a tremendous "buzz" of excitement and he had gotten a dozen requests to assist in his work; he made promises for next year.

Sara shifted her position, flexed her right hand, and pinched air with thumb and index finger. Progress, she thought. More surgery had been discussed, but postponed for now. She made a circle using thumb and two fingers. The ring and little finger refused to cooperate as she raised her hand to her eye and pretended she had made a telescope as she looked skyward.

"Finding anything interesting?" Grissom asked, standing over her, a smile on his face.

She laughed. "Just doing hand therapy."

He held a small net in his palm. "Got another one—that's four!" He scanned the area, "Wish I could find a nest."

Sara watched as he examined the bee. It crawled to the edge of the net and onto his palm. Sara handed him a blue marker as he lifted the net away and carefully placed a small dot on the bee's wing. Sara reached for her camera and rapidly pressed the shutter getting a dozen photos before the bumble bee flew away.

Grissom grinned as Sara moved back to her rock. Kneeling beside her, he asked his usual, "You okay?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "Getting my vitamin D—strong bones."

He took her right hand, gently massaging it between his hands, his thumbs on her palm. "Do you remember the day I asked you to marry me?"

She made a quiet laugh. "How could I forget?"

"You came out to those hives and you hated bees." His hands covered hers, "to see me and you took your glove off. I knew I had to marry you when you let a bee crawl on your hand." He chuckled, kissed her, and continued, "Then that darn bee stung you!"

Her thumb had found his. "I freaked out," she whispered.

"Did you?" He shifted his position to sit beside her. "You seemed so calm." His hand moved to her abdomen. "Took a while but we finally got there."

"We did, didn't we." She covered his hand with hers and settled her head against his chest. "It's funny how things work out—getting there—married—and here we are in a quiet place—just us." She smiled and sighed, "Surprises me how similar hunting bees and crime scenes are."

She felt Grissom's deep chuckle. "No blood."

"And no bullets."

"And when it rains we can stay at home."

She felt his lips touch her hair. "You know, Sara, you can't keep coming up here."

"Another month—and won't the bees move lower?"

Grissom shook his head. "They will, but you shouldn't be out here—this isolated, even a two mile walk on these trails is not a walk in the park for…" his hand moved, lightly caressing her abdomen, already the size and shape of a basketball, "for a woman in your condition."

His words were so tenderly spoken, Sara knew he was being protective. She poked him with an elbow. "Oh, Gil, women go into labor and have babies everywhere. We can get home in an hour from the parking lot!"

"Not you—not us—I'm not delivering our son! This is happening in a hospital with all those doctors doing what they do best. Beside, I'm closing everything down in a month. I'll come back in the fall and look for nests."

Sara closed her eyes and smiled. "We can bring little Gilbert with us!"

Grissom grimaced. "Not Gilbert. I thought we talked about another name."

"I like Gilbert," she said with a grin. "Little Gil or Gilly—what about Bert or Bertie?"

He groaned. "Oh, honey—don't do this to our little boy!"

She opened her eyes and looked at him over her sunglasses. "Okay, pick a name—you have to have one you like."

By his quick response, Sara knew he had given thought to naming his son.

"James—James Sidle Grissom."

His choice surprised her and she sat up. "James—Jamie, Jimmy, Jim—as in Jim Brass?"

He nodded. "Jim would be honored—delighted and he's always been a good friend—to both of us. He loves you like a daughter—has for years. And with all that's happened…"

Sara nodded. "And his retirement coming up-that's a good idea. I like it."

'All that's happened' included a health scare with his heart following the discovery of Ellie's body in a ravine in California. And even though he had not heard from her in years, the loss and grief had devastated him.

"James Grissom—that's good," Sara smiled. "As long as I can call him Jamie while he's a baby."

"You can," Grissom leaned over and kissed her; he pushed a dark curl behind her ear. "Now, can I get another sandwich before looking for number five?"

Giggling, Sara kissed him; she knew she wanted to kiss him more than he wanted a sandwich.

_The End (and we look forward to hearing from all of you-come on, you can review! Ideas, suggestions, continue a previous story? We would love to know what you think we should write next! Maybe a return to Costa Rica?)_


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